


Freedom to Live

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Friendship, Gen, M/M, More tags to be added, Possession, Swearing, The Hero's Journey, Violence, alternate series 4, it's the monster after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: “Well,” Eliot drawled, “As deliciously kinky as this has the potential to be, I’m afraid that I’m not really in the mood. So if you don’t mind just stepping back into your own body then we can all write this off as a drunken mistake.”“I can’t,” he snarled, “Because you killed it. You killed my body.”Eliot blanched“Oh shit,” he said, “You’re the Monster.”





	1. I. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> I disliked the Monster immensely when I started the series, but as time went by I was invested in his journey to understand humanity in his own sociopathic way. I was pretty disappointed (slight understatement) by many things in the finale, and one of them was the way that the Monster got no narrative payoff. Thus this story was born! 
> 
> It is structured around the hero's journey, or the monomyth as explored by Campbell (among others). I hope you enjoy it!

 i.  The call to adventure

_The hero begins in a situation of normality from which some information is received that acts as a call to head off into the unknown._

He had lived at Blackspire for as long as he could remember. Hundreds and thousands of suns, up and down and up and down. The days were always the same: waking in the morning to see Ora who gave him honeyed porridge to eat, then a morning filled with games like hide-and-seek, and then lunch where Ora made him eat green things no matter how much he complained. In the afternoon Ora read him stories about legendary heroes and epic Quests: sometimes they would act them out in the library, Ora playing the role of the evil sorcerer while he played the good and heroic knight, searching to free the fair maiden from their grasp.

 

It was a good life. It was a life without excitement, a life built around Ora who was mother, playmate and carer all wrapped into one. And then, one day, it all changed.

 

“Come here my love,” Ora called, “My love, my life where are you? I found you! I tag you!”

 

Ora had asked him to play hide-and-seek with him. It was strange because hide-and-seek was a morning game, and it was now afternoon, but he didn’t want to say anything because Ora had been looking stressed and sad recently and he didn’t want her to be sad.

 

And now she was calling for him, which was definitely against the rules: she hadn’t found him. He’d been curled behind a tapestry and she definitely hadn’t found him because being able to sense people wasn’t the same as physically seeing them. That was cheating, plain and simple, and Ora had been the one to tell him that. So, it didn’t make sense that she had forgotten.

 

It was something different. And because he didn’t have a lot of different things in his life, he left his perfect hiding place and went to see what Ora wanted.

 

And… she had brought him a friend. He used to have lots of friends, but one by one they had left. Sometimes when they were being stupid, he would move inside them so that he could let them see what he saw, but they were always panicked and would barricade themselves into their own minds until he gave up trying to talk to them. It had been only him and Ora for so many suns that the sight of someone else was strange. He wasn’t sure whether he liked it.

 

But then… the stranger had a pack of cards and he moved them smoothly and gracefully in his hands, and they moved so fast that he couldn’t see what was happening or how he was doing it. It wasn’t magic: he knew magic intimately, could feel it in his blood and bones and mind. This wasn’t magic: it was something even more fascinating.

 

He wanted to dig into the newcomer’s mind and demand that he show him how it performed such games. It wanted him to stay forever and show him tricks and maybe he would want to play with him: he was so bored. He loved Ora, but the truth was that he needed someone new to play with. He could always find Ora’s hiding places, and he could recite her stories off by heart: maybe if there were someone new to play with, they would have new stories to tell him.

 

So he walked closer and closer. Until… he felt pain. Pain unlike anything he had ever felt before, tearing through his chest like a brand until he couldn’t think of anything but escape escape escape from the burning, the awful burning.

 

He fell to the floor, stunned by the new sensation. He knew what pain was: when he tried to help Ora in the kitchen and touched the stove, that was pain. When he fell down the stairs and cracked hi head that was pain. This though… this was so much worse.

 

Looking up though the haze that had started to drift across his eyes, he saw Ora. Ora who was home and comfort and love. And suddenly he longed for her, fierce and aching, and he opens his mouth and-

 

ii. Refusal of the call

_Often when the call is given, the future hero first refuses to heed it. This may be from a sense of duty or obligation, fear, insecurity, a sense of inadequacy, or any of a range of reasons that work to hold the person in his current circumstances._

She hadn’t been a girl for a long time. Most of the people in the castle were men: strong and frowning and no fun to play with: Ora had always been the exception to the rule. Maybe that was why she liked her so much. The last time she was a girl she thought was before she came to live at Blackspire: at least she remembered a girl sometimes when she closed her eyes at night. The thought of the girl always brought a wave of pain with it, fierce and overpowering, and an aching sense of loss that she didn’t understand. She tried not to think about it too much.

 

Now that she was Ora, the castle seemed too large and too empty. There was no more honeyed porridge, no more games, no more stories curled in the warmth of her bed. It was only the echoing of her own footsteps and the tinkling of the fountain.

 

She held on for a few suns before she realised that she couldn’t survive without Ora, that she needed to find someone else to host her so that she could have Ora back.

 

It’s…scary. She didn’t know what was outside the castle, only that according to Ora’s stories it was full of Monsters and Quests and Knights. She didn’t want to meet a monster, and she definitely didn’t want to go on a Quest. She wouldn’t mind meeting a knight. Ora was a knight and she was the best person she knew.

 

She had to be brave. For Ora.

 

She didn’t know how to leave though. The doors that had been locked for as long as she could remember were open, but she had no idea where the castle was located, or how to travel anywhere, or even where to find another body to jump into. But… she did know that people existed. There was the boy with the long hair that had shown her card tricks, and the girl with the yellow hair who was so frightened of her, and the boy with the curly hair who had hurt her.

 

She scowled. Because of the boy with the curly hair she had had to leave her body and take Ora’s body: it was his fault that she had to leave her home in the first place. It was only fair then that he be her new body.

 

That was one problem solved. And… she had memories, distant ones, of a time where she could jump and then find herself in a new place. She shivered: those memories are tinged in red for pain and blue for grief and she hadn’t realised that she had them in the first place. She ignored the emotions, shoved them to the back of her mind like Ora had taught her to do when it was dark and she was shivering in her room with the memories of phantom pain, and reached deep inside herself for her power.

 

Closing her eyes, she can feel it: golden and pulsing with life and so large that she couldn’t tell where it ended. If it ended. She concentrated: _I want to leave. I want to find the one that hurt me. Take me to the curly-haired boy._

When she opened her eyes again, she was outside, green rolling hills surrounding her and the warmth of the sunlight beating down on her head. Oh. Was this what the world was? It was…beautiful. So beautiful. For several moments she just stood and watched.

iii. Meeting the mentor

_Once the hero has committed to the quest, consciously or unconsciously, his guide and magical helper appears or becomes known. More often than not, this supernatural mentor will present the hero with one or more talismans or artifacts that will aid him later in his quest. Meeting the person that can help them in their journey._

“Excuse me?” a voice said behind her, “Can I help you with something? Are you lost?”

 

She turned around. And squinted, tilting her head inquisitively. The man who had approached her: he had two faces. On the surface she could see a short, plain, freckled red-head with brilliant blue eyes and a snub nose, dressed comfortably in a pair of worn jeans and a hoody. Once she peered further down… She saw him. The curly-haired boy. The one she had been looking for. The one who had hurt her last body.

 

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “You can.”

 

She watched in amusement as he realised the danger he was in: his eyes widened and he turned on his heel and fled. This was fun: it sent a bolt of pleasure through her body. It was like the times she would find Ora almost immediately, intuitively guessing the spots where she would hide. It was the best of games.

 

She strolled toward him leisurely, reaching down into the well of power inside her: it was easier this time. It felt familiar, like breathing. Like some vital part of her that had been lost. Crooking her little finger, she dragged the boy toward her, savouring his panic as he kicked and screamed.

 

“You’ve been bad,” she said sadly, “And you have to be punished when you’re bad. It’s the rules.”

 

Then she opens her mouth and streams out toward him, inhabiting every molecule of his being until there was no sign of the curly haired boy left, only him.

 

He stretched in his new body, absently breaking the illusion with a thought. It was easy enough to do from the inside: a thought and the sluggish black film that covered his body vanished into the ether.  That was better. He does vastly prefer a male body: being inside Ora had felt like wearing the wrong clothes: not inherently bad but wrong-fitting. It had left him panicky and disorientated.

 

He turned behind him.

 

“Ora!” he said, “Ora it’s all going to be ok now. I’ve found a new body so we can go back to the castle.”

 

Ora remained sprawled on the ground where he had left here. She wasn’t moving: maybe she was asleep? She did that sometimes, stayed still and silent for hours and he wasn’t allowed to wake her because she would be sad and no fun to play with the next day if he did so. He crouched down beside her and touched her shoulder.

 

“Ora?” he repeated, giving her a small shake. Nothing. “Ora, you have to wake up. We have to go home now. Ora?”

 

He shook her harder, her head snapping back and forth limply with the force of it.

 

“Ora,” he whimpered, “Why won’t you wake up?”

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated, looking deeply into himself to where he knew the monsters lived. The shadowy beings that would haunt him unless he concentrated.

 

“They’re not real,” Ora would tell him, stroking his head, “They’re just figments of your imagination. They can’t hurt you. I promised that I would protect you my love, and I never break my promises.”

 

He would nod and smile at her. Despite knowing that she was wrong, and they were real. But if he just ignored them and concentrated on the warmth that filled his chest whenever he played with Ora, then everything would be ok. Nothing would harm him so long as he didn’t think of it.

 

Now though… now he delved deeply into himself. Because he knew, he had always known, that the shadowy beings that screamed and tore at him were the remnants of his former bodies, driven mad. And if they were down there… then maybe Ora was as well, maybe she hadn’t been able to stay with her body when he left her. But if he could just find her then he could put her back where she belonged.

 

But… he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t find her bright mind. In fact, he could only feel two human presences, and one of them was the curly haired boy.

 

He felt a burst of rage, hot and fierce. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t find Ora, that she was probably dead and gone and never coming back, while the one that had killed her, the one that had torn him from his life in the castle, was still alive. Still present.

 

He screamed, loud and fierce and uncontained. Screamed for the memories that will never come again. Screamed for the death of his only friend. Screamed for the loneliness and isolation that he saw in front of him, the long years of solitude.

 

Magic burst out of him in waves, each one more powerful than the last, his pain given physical form. When he finally stopped, panting harshly, the green grass surrounding him had turned black and burnt away and Ora’s body was charred and unrecognisable.

 

He fell to his knees.

 

“Why did you leave me?” he whimpered.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

He turned, sharply and suddenly. Behind him, sprawled on the grass… was the curly haired boy. Dressed in the clothes that he had been wearing when he had invaded the castle and had destroyed his world.

 

With a roar he launched himself toward the boy, determined to make him pay. He expected to feel the soft give of flesh, the consolation of the sight of his blood against the black ground, the transient pleasure of watching the light fade from his eyes.

 

Instead he fell straight through him.

 

 iv.  Crossing the first threshold

_This is the point where the hero actually crosses into the field of adventure, leaving the known limits of his world and venturing into an unknown and dangerous realm where the rules and limits are unknown._

“Who the hell are you?” the boy demanded, “And why the fuck are you wearing my body?”

 

He scowled.

 

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” he said, digging into his mind to grasp the faint wisps of memories that each new body brings with it, “ _Eliot_.”

 

The boy, Eliot, looked unimpressed. At least, he tried to. The trembling of his hands betrayed his terror, and viciously he was glad that Eliot was afraid. Ora had been afraid before she died, he could feel it.

 

“Well,” Eliot drawled, “As deliciously kinky as this has the potential to be, I’m afraid that I’m not really in the mood. So if you don’t mind just stepping back into your own body then we can all write this off as a drunken mistake.”

 

“I can’t,” he snarled, “Because you killed it. You killed my body.”

 

Eliot blanched

 

“Oh shit,” he said, “You’re the Monster.”

 

“Monster?” he said. He couldn’t be a monster. Monsters were the things that Ora fought, the ones that she had battled to come home to the castle. Monsters were things that heroes battled and fought and killed.

 

“I’m not a Monster.”

 

“Well from where I’m standing…” Eliot drawled.

 

“If anything,” he says, “You’re the monster. You came to my castle and you hurt me. You killed Ora.”

 

“Ora? Is that the name of your babysitter? Because if this Ora is Kentucky Fried Chicken there on the ground then I’m pretty sure that I’m not the one that killed her.”

 

He keened, high and pained. Liquid dripped down from his eyes and out of his nose, hot and stinging. He was bent in two under the weight of his sorrow, hugging himself tightly.

 

Eliot stared at him.

 

“Ok, fine,” he said, “I have to admit that you don’t look a lot like a monster at the moment. And maybe, just maybe, I was slightly hasty in shooting you. I don’t regret it: it was only way to stop a …good friend… from doing something he’d regret for the rest of his life. But it is very possible that the ”

 

Eliot paused.

 

“What am I supposed to call you?”

 

“I-don’t understand.”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“I don’t have one.”

 

“Everyone has a name. What did your parents call you?”

 

He had never had a name. No name, not as far back as he could remember. He couldn’t remember parents either even though he knew that he must have had them: everyone in the stories that Ora told him had had parents. Ora had a father, even though she didn’t like to talk about him.

 

“I don’t know my parents. I can’t- I can’t remember. But Ora used to call me my love,” he offered quietly.

 

Eliot snorted. “Well there’s no way I’m calling you that.” He paused, an inscrutable look on his face.

 

“No name and no parents, huh? That’s- ok not gonna lie, that’s slightly fucked up. You can’t just go around without a name though. How about-“ Eliot cast around for a few seconds, before snapping his fingers and saying: “How about Mon.”

 

“Mon?” he, no Mon repeated. It was, honestly it was a terrible name and he said as much to Eliot.

 

“Look, considering I named my pet fish goldy, I think you’re getting off lightly. There’s a reason I never turned to emo poetry when I was reinventing myself.”

 

“It’s not my name,” Mon said and paused. “But. You can call me that.”

 

Until he was given a real name.

 

 v.  Belly of the whale

_The belly of the whale represents the final separation from the hero's known world and self. By entering this stage, the person shows willingness to undergo a metamorphosis. When first entering the stage the hero may encounter a minor danger or set back._

“So, there’s no way that you’re going to leave my body then?” Eliot asked. He didn’t sound as upset as before, just resigned. At some point he had stood up and was leaning against the blackened trunk of what used to be a tall oak tree.

 

Mon himself was also tired. He was overwhelmed by Everything that was the world, he and longed for nothing more to return home to his castle and curl up in his bed and eat honeyed porridge and play hide and seek with Ora. But… he couldn’t. Because his home was gone. And he would have to find a new one.

 

“I can’t,” Mon said, then scowled, “Not that I would. But I don’t have a body of my own. I would have to take someone else’s. And I like this body? It’s so _tall_.”

 

“I am a perfect specimen of manhood,” Eliot agreed easily, “But seeing as I was happily living my life as _Nigel_ when you found me, I’m pretty sure that the rest of my friends are in trouble, and I’m the only one who knows what’s going on. Which means that either you’re going to have to vamoose, or you’re going to have to drag me along with you and check on them yourself.”

 

“Friends?” Mon repeated slowly, “I don’t have friends.”

 

“I can’t imagine why. We’re talking about my friends not-”

 

Mon ignored him and continued: “I had one friend. And you killed her.” He swallowed.

 

“I feel like we’re going in circles here-”

 

“That means that you owe me a friend. Because I can’t live without a friend, I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

 

“That’s not how friends work-”

 

“Do you think,” Mon said carefully, “That Quentin would be my friend as well? I remember him. He showed me card tricks.”

 

“Stay the hell away from Quentin,” Eliot said, low and dangerous and yes. This is what Mon had been missing. Because Eliot’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white and there was a dangerous look on his face. But he couldn’t do anything. Nothing at all. He just had to stand there and watch.

 

“It’s perfect,” Mon said, “I get to have a new friend,” he smiled for the first time in his new body, teeth bared savagely, “And I get to punish you at the same time.”

 

And ignoring the shouted protests and ineffectual blows from Eliot, he concentrated on the Quentin from his memories, the shy smile, the hunched shoulders and nervous eyes-

 

-and he disappeared. 


	2. Initiation, Pt.1

  1. The road of trials



_The road of trials is a series of tests that the hero must undergo to begin the transformation. Often the hero fails one or more of these tests, which often occur in threes. Eventually the hero will overcome these trials and move on to the next step._

Finding Brian-not-Brian was a disappointment. He was boring: he never wanted to do anything fun or really do anything at all. Instead he would cower against the wall when they were at the home- and he had a home now even if it wasn’t as good as the castle- or would stand, pale and carefully still whenever they went out to do something fun.

 

“Well what do you expect?” Eliot snapped, “You’ve terrified him. You’ve fucking killed people in front of him. Of course he’s not going to be the life of the party!”

 

Eliot had started yelling at him the first time they found Brian-not-Brian and hadn’t been quiet since. Not only shouting of course, begging, pleading and threats had all made appearances. But shouting seemed to be the main form of communication that Eliot had chosen. Which is strange because shouting always made his throat tired, so he wouldn’t want to do as often as Eliot had, even if he was a ghost.

 

“He’s boring like this,” Mon said, “All he does is stare and shake.”

 

Eliot gave a frustrated yell, hands compulsively running through his hair.

 

“Look,” he said, “If you break him now then there’s no point. You’re not going to get Quentin back is there isn’t a body to come back to. And the way that Brian’s looking? He’s a couple of jump scares away from the funny farm. So why don’t you give him a break, ok?”

 

“He’s meant to be entertaining me,” he said, “I’m bored.”

 

Eliot groaned. “Get on with bringing Quentin back then,” he snapped.

 

Mon pouted. “I can’t,” he said, “The spell’s too strong. And slippery.”

 

“You managed to break it when you possessed me,” Eliot pointed out.

 

“Unless you want me to body jump again, I can’t do it.”

 

Mon had tried. He had tried very hard. But every time he tried to work on the spell, sparks would fly and things the large animals they called trucks would crash around him until Brian-not-Brian was trembling again and all the humans were running scared, screaming and sometimes bloody. He gave up after the third time Brian-not-Brian had almost been decapitated.

 

“Then- I don’t know. Go out and practise socialising with someone without killing them. Brian will still be here when you get back. You’ve made sure of that.”

 

Both of them stare at the limp figure on the floor. It looked like he’d finally managed to fall asleep. Eliot crossed the floor to stare down at him. Mon frowned: he did look a little smaller than he had a month ago.

 

“And for fuck’s sake,” Eliot said, not looking away from Brian-not-Brian, “Get some proper food for him. NOT Cheetos. Something that’s actually seen a vegetable.” Eliot shuddered, “God help me, I actually sound like my mother. This is a new low.”

 

“I don’t like the green ones. They’re bitter.”

 

“Then find a non-green vegetable,” Eliot said, “And while you’re at it I know you’re an immortal being, but would it kill you to take better care of my body? A shower maybe?”

 

“I don’t want to. I don’t need a shower.”

 

“Trust me, and I am talking for people everywhere when I say you stink, and you absolutely do. At least clean the blood off. You’ll find that people are a lot more willing to talk to you.”

 

Mon remained unconvinced.

 

“Tell you what,” Eliot said, “Let’s compromise. You don’t have to shower but you do have to remove the blood. And then we can go and get you some more clothes, because you have been wearing those rags for weeks and it is not a good look on me. We can stop by a Trader Joe’s on the way back and get some food. Or ready meals, or whatever.”

 

Eliot sighed.

 

“You could even get some of those disgusting cheese snacks you like.”

 

In the end Mon went out. Because staying in with Brain-not-Brian was boring. And the outside world had ice cream. Even if stupid Eliot stopped him from killing the ice cream man. Still, at least he had learnt that jimmies were the same as sprinkles.

 

It was… fun. Surprisingly. Humans were little ants, scurrying about their business, unaware that their lives were empty and meaningless. But at least they were funny.

 

“Watching someone get mugged isn’t funny,” Eliot said. He paused: “Although I have to admit it was hilarious when he fell over that poodle.”

 

Over the next few days, Mon found that Eliot was more fun to play with than Brian-not-Brian, even if he couldn’t do card tricks or play hide and seek with him. Eliot would convince him to go outside and then they would buy iced drinks from Starbucks that were sweeter than the honey that Ora used to put on his breakfast and made him feel full of energy for hours and hours.

 

Sometimes they would bring Brian-not-Brian with them. But Mon found that more and more it was easier to just leave the human back in the apartment. Eliot was more fun to play with, desperate to keep him occupied and entertained and out of the house.

 

“I think we should go to a funfair,” Mon said. “I’ve never been to a funfair before. It looks…fun.”

 

“Oh goodie,” Eliot said, “More fried food. Seriously, I think I’m about to break out in spots.”

 

“You don’t want to play?” Mon asked. He sat on the floor, cross-legged next to Brian-not-Brian and canted his head to the side, “That’s ok. We can play games here as well-”

 

“No, no,” Eliot said hastily, “A trip to the fair sounds…bracingly rural.” Mon smiled to himself. He knew what to do to get Eliot to play with him. And Eliot knew it too, judging by the sour look that appeared on his face. It was always nice to have friends.

 

So they go to the fair. And Mon eats funnel cake which isn’t shaped like a funnel and threw plastic rings around tin cans so that he can get a stuffed bear with the words ‘I Wuv You’ emblazoned in crimson on its chest.

 

“Isn’t this the best day?” Mon asked.

 

“Peachy,” Eliot replied sourly.

 

He was leant against a bale of hay, hands in his pockets and watching Mon with the wary air of a man sharing a tent with a bear.

 

They had been to see a bear, travelling to Yosemite Valley especially because Eliot had always wanted to go to Napa Valley: Mon had seen it in his head. Seen the fantasies the carefully drawn plans. Drinking wine was boring though: it didn’t taste good and what was the point of spitting the liquid out afterward? Instead they had seen a mother bear and her cubs, and Mon had carefully taken her apart piece by piece to see how she worked while Brian-not-Brian had been noisily sick in the corner.

 

Eliot had watched though. Lips clamped together so tightly that they looked like nothing more than thin lines, hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. But he watched until Mon had got bored and left the family alone, the cubs keening and crowding around their mother’s corpse.

 

After that Eliot started to suggest that they not bring Brian along with them anymore. Mon allowed it because it was more fun watching Eliot run around in circles, thinking of convincing reasons for Brian not to be included. And it was much easier for him to convince Eliot to go on fun trips with him.

 

“This has been a perfect day,” Mon said, “And I can’t wait for more.”

 

“So many more days,” Eliot agreed, a blank look on his face, “Oh joy.”

 

Mon hummed in agreement. He felt light, like his mind was soaring and flying and he was already planning fun days. He was the happiest he had ever been (although in the back of his mind he wished, fiercely and thoroughly, that Ora were there with him to enjoy it.)

 

The feeling didn’t last though. Because when they got in Quentin was no longer in the apartment.

 

“Oh thank fuck,” Eliot said.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
